


Answers and Closure

by WayWardWonderer



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Assault, Attack, Emotional, Gen, Hurt, Mystery, Pain, Past, Revenge, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 18:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14291118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWonderer/pseuds/WayWardWonderer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes manages to solve the case and save his apprentice from harm, while Joan Watson finally gets her answer as to who wanted her dead.





	Answers and Closure

Slamming the heavy door shut behind her, Joan Watson peeled off her now heavy wet coat and scarf. She was alone in the large brownstone; at least she hoped she was. Without Sherlock Holmes around the empty brownstone felt so massive. An attacker could be hiding anywhere and she'd never know until it was too late. But she wasn't about to go back outside into the storm and try to find Sherlock, certainly not after the way he had pushed her to her emotional breaking point.

Perhaps her 'alone time' would be enough to let her calm down and finally rest.

Joan stoked up a small fire in the fireplace; luckily the handy Miss Hudson had shown her the trick to lighting up a fire quickly and easily only a few weeks beforehand. With the warming glow of the fire and the crackling of the wood filling the rather large room, Joan felt more at ease. The welcomed warmth was intoxicating. She bundled herself up with the well worn afghan that had been draped over the back of the couch, and quickly fell into a peaceful sleep.

Outside the storm intensified, the rain was pounding down on the roof and against the windows while the thunder and lightning clashed in the sky. But Joan was so tired and deep into her long over-due sleep that she didn't flinch at nature's chaos just outside the front door.

The powerful storm managed to drown out all the sounds of the city. The heavy wet footsteps of a man approaching the front door to the brownstone remained undetected. His heavy knocks on the front door went unnoticed, easily dismissed as thunder to anyone who may have heard the thumps. The distinct buzz of the front door bell was also lost in the ambiance of the storm and the crackling fire. Heavy creaking of the large front door being opened from the outside was quieted by the other numerous sounds that already filled the air; the man who had entered the brownstone walked with purpose to Joan's sleeping form on the couch, his wet footprints staining the strewn about papers that still covered the floor. His hand touched her shoulder.

Sitting up with a start and grabbing at the hand on her shoulder, Joan shouted at the intruder. "What do you want?!"

"Whoa, whoa it's me; Detective Bell." Marcus Bell was drenched from the rain, water droplets fell to the floor around him as they trailed from his heavy dark coat.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! You scared me. What's going on?" She placed her hand to her forehead with both relief and embarrassment.

"I tried calling you but the storm's messing with cell reception all over the city. And just so you know, I _did_ knock _and_ try the doorbell before I walked in."

"Yeah, I guess the storm helped me tune everything out."

"I take it you haven't been sleeping much lately with Sherlock being so sick, huh?"

"Sherlock? Is he back?"

"Umm… Back? I didn't know he left. Wait, the man was just poisoned and now he's _gone_? Just out and about, strollin' through the city?" His voice was resonating disbelief.

"Well, he got better and decided to work on the case, and then I got fed up with his tactics and came back here. Alone." She looked down at her phone to check the time. "I came back about… _six_ hours ago!" She couldn't believe she'd been sleeping that long.

"Six hours? He's been wandering the streets alone for six hours?"

"I guess so. Wait, first thing's first: Why are you here?"

"Right, sorry. There was a small break in the case. The lab analyzed that thumbtack that stuck Sherlock and they found a partial fingerprint."

"Did it match anyone in the criminal database?"

"Unfortunately, no, they didn't have enough detail to find a match, but it _is_ a step forward. We just need to figure out who wanted to kill him and start weeding out the suspects."

"About that…" Joan sighed and ran her fingers through her hair nervously. "The thumbtack wasn't meant for him, it was meant for _me_."

" _You_?" Bell was obviously surprised by the new information. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Sherlock determined that the dosage of the poison was too small, or too diluted, to kill him but it was the perfect amount to kill me. He was just an innocent victim of circumstance."

"So... you two are working a case where it turns out that _you_ and not Sherlock is the real target, and you decided to come back to the place where the _first attack_ took place, and you came back _alone_?"

Joan sat on the couch with her arms folded defensively across her chest, she hadn't thought about how dangerous her decision to go back to the brownstone had been. "I wasn't exactly thinking very clearly when I came back."

Bell took off his wet, cold coat and placed it over the armchair. He stood in front of the fire trying to warm himself. "If you weren't thinking clearly, what makes you think that Sherlock would be any better?"

"Oh no." Joan's face fell into both of her opened palms, her arms resting against her knees "I left a man who was still recovering from a severe illness alone on the streets on New York, in a storm, and this particular man makes very poor decisions when he's alone."

"I don't want to, but I have to ask, why did you leave him alone?"

"He…" Joan was trying to find a way to explain their 'disagreement' without trying to make it sound too one-sided or petty. "He was just pushing me too hard and too fast today." The thunder of the storm shook the brownstone. "I was tired and I was upset, so when he kept pushing at me and wouldn't stop, I left."

"Wow, he must've pushed really hard to make you leave. You're easily one of the most patient people I've ever met."

"Thanks, I guess."

Bell rubbed his hands together trying to get the chill out his fingers. "So did you make any progress on the case before you left?" He reached into his coat pocket on the chair and pulled out a small notepad and pen.

"Well, he's certain that the person who tried to… Tried to kill me, is one of those four people." She motioned for the case files that were left neatly stacked on the floor. "Actually, he had eliminated two of the suspects before I left: Mr. John McCoy and Mr. Derek LaMonte."

Bell picked up the files and started going through the diligently noted papers. "How did Sherlock decide that these four people were the most likely suspects?"

"They're all family members of my former patients. He thinks they may be holding a grudge against me."

"That's some grudge, but I've seen people killed for a lot less. Unfortunately."

Joan looked at the fire uncomfortably; Bell could see the fear in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, wrong choice of words."

"It's okay."

"Look, if you want we can station a cop outside to monitor the brownstone for you."

"No, no, it's fine."

"You sure? Because you're acting-" A heavy bang of the front door flying open stopped Detective Bell midsentence.

Instinctively he reached for his gun and approached the front door cautiously; he motioned for Joan to stay on the couch. She didn't budge from her position as she just anxiously listened for any sign of a struggle.

A familiar voice called out hoarsely from the doorway. "Watson?"

"Sherlock, man you look terrible!" Bell relaxed his hand dropping away from his gun holster.

"Detective Bell." Sherlock paused to try and clear his raspy voice. "I see you're here on official police business."

"Uh yeah, there was a break in the case but I couldn't get a call through. How did you-"

"Your car is parked in front of my brownstone." Sherlock rubbed his hand against his sore throat. "I didn't need to use any clever deductive trick to figure that one out."

"Right." Bell saw that his eye looked swollen. "Hey, what happened to you?" He pointed to Sherlock's eye.

"Ask Miss Watson."

Hearing the familiar voice and recognizing it as Sherlock's, Joan left the sitting room and walked toward the front doorway where both detectives were standing.

"Sorry about that."

Bell looked shocked. " _You_ did that?"

"I told you, he pushed me too hard today."

"So you… Punched him in the face?"

Sherlock butted in. "She slapped me, actually. Quite hard."

"Damn. I guess you don't need police protection after all." Bell was restraining a smile.

"Thanks." Joan was less than thrilled that both men were 'impressed' by her actions.

"This may be a dumb questions, but I have to ask: Why would you let her come back here by herself, especially when you think she was the intended target to begin with?"

Sherlock tossed his dampened scarf toward the coat hook. "Simple, the first attack had taken place during our dual absence from the brownstone. The method of attack was both highly meticulous and carefully staged. The attacker would not be able to come up with a second plan of equal cleverness in such a brief window of time. If the attacker in question did choose to return to the brownstone it would happen no sooner than tonight, rather than anytime this afternoon or evening. Watson was in no immediate danger."

Bell just shook his head. He'd never get used to Sherlock's nonchalant attitude toward death and maniacal behavior. "Captain Gregson is going to want an update, so I'm going back to the station. Are you sure that you don't want a car stationed outside?" Bell had briefly stepped back into the sitting room to reclaim his still damp coat.

"I'm sure. Thank you detective." Watson answered with a quasi confident tone.

"Okay, I'll try calling later but I think I'm going to have to wait until the storm's passed." A bright flash of lightning lit up the brownstone, followed by an enormous rumble of thunder. Bell draped his coat over his head and ran out the front door and climbed into his car quickly. Sherlock and Joan watched as the car's tail lights disappeared into the stormy night.

"Well, Watson…" Sherlock paused again to try and clear his congested throat. "We are down to only one suspect."

"I'd certainly hope that you made some progress and weren't just running around in the storm for no reason."

"Everything I do, and everything I say, has a reason Watson." His voice weakened considerably as he concluded his comment.

"You sound terrible."

Joan took in Sherlock's appearance. His coat was soaked completely through from the rain causing his body to shiver from the cold. His hair had been matted down, his pallor had returned to the unhealthy shade it had been the morning Joan found him laying ill in bed. The dark circles under his eyes had returned, his left eye more swollen than the other, only emphasized his paleness. His hazel eyes were shining brighter against the bloodshot hue from his fatigue and lingering fever that took residence in his otherwise unshakable stare.

"If you weren't sick before, you certainly are _now_." Joan commented seriously.

"Was that you deductive reasoning or medical training that led you to this conclusion?" He coughed into his hand.

"It was my _common sense_. The same sense that keeps me from running around in a storm for six hours."

"But it was worth it."

Not wanting to hear anymore details about her would-be assassin, Joan ignored him and began to pull his wet coat off his chilled body. She put her hand to his forehead and felt his burning skin beneath her palm.

"Sherlock, you have a fever. Again. You need to rest and you need to warm up. Get out of your wet clothes and go sit by the fire."

Obeying Joan, Sherlock began to lift off his damp shirt, acting as though he intended strip off his wet clothes right in front of her.

"No! Go _upstairs_ and change out of your wet clothes into dry ones!" She turned away and covered her eyes with her hands.

"Very well." Sherlock walked up the stairs quickly. "For the record, as a former doctor the sight of the naked human body should be completely ingrained into your subconscious and thus not a shock to behold." He then slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.

Shaking her head Joan walked back into the sitting room and began to mentally debate with herself if he had done that simply because she wasn't specific enough, or if he was trying make her laugh. Either way, that was a moment she wouldn't soon forget. She sat back down on the couch and watched the glowing embers of the fire as they danced about in the hearth.

The heavy rain pounded against the window, the city itself seemed to disappear into the storm. Another bright of bolt of lightning lit up the brownstone, simultaneously the power failed leaving the room filled only with blackness that intensified the fire's orange glow.

Now alone in the dark, Joan felt incredibly tense. She couldn't see anything that was beyond the fire's glow.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"

There was no sign of movement from upstairs; there was no sound or vague motions in the darkness at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock?"

Silence. Joan picked up her phone and used the screen's back light to help guide her as she made her way to the darkened staircase.

"Sherlock, where are you?"

Fearing that something was wrong with the consulting detective Joan cautiously began to climb the stairs; each step creaked eerily under her weight. She gripped the banister tightly as she climbed because she didn't want to fall, but she was also very tense and needed the support. As she reached the top of the stairs she turned around and looked back down the staircase, almost paranoid that someone would be standing at the bottom watching her.

Taking a few steps backward, Joan turned back around quickly and bumped right into another person who had been walking toward her. Just as she had done before Joan attempted to slap whoever it was she ran into. A strong hand gripped her wrist and kept her from striking her foe.

"Once is enough for today Watson."

"Sherlock?"

A flashlight clicked on and the beam highlighted his features from beneath his chin. "Boo."

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because my throat is feeling rather raw and I did not want to strain my voice any further. And I was looking for the torch." He waved the flashlight around under his face.

Joan sighed annoyed. "Are we the only ones without power or did the whole neighborhood go out?"

"I cannot tell how far the power outage extends; the storm has limited my visual range at the moment." His voice was sounding more and more hoarse by the second.

"You need to warm up. With your immune system already compromised you probably caught a cold while out in the rain."

"Agreed."

Using both the flashlight and the phone's light, the duo returned to the sitting room and sat in front of the fire. Joan took the afghan and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Just for the record, I'm sorry that I hit you. I shouldn't have done that."

"I feel you should know that it wasn't the first time I've been slapped, and damn well that it won't be the last. I don't hold grudges against those I provoke, intentional or otherwise." He paused to clear his throat. "If I did hold grudges I'd have absolutely no one to talk with."

She smiled at the comment but tried to keep it hidden from him.

"Now Watson, I wish to inform you of the progress on the case."

"Okay, what did you find out?"

"Only one suspect remains. The third of the original four suspects was killed in a traffic collision on the 405 four weeks ago. It is very unlikely that Mrs. Janet Russo would have been able to commit the act of attempted murder from the morgue, let alone the grave."

"So that means the final suspect has to be the assassin, right?"

"Through deductive reasoning and elimination, it is a very probable conclusion."

All the suspects that had been eliminated had been from the families of former patients that were under her care. The final suspect, the person who had tried to kill her, in her gut Joan felt like she already knew the answer. There was one name that remained burned into her memory from her time as a surgeon. She didn't want to know the answer but she knew she had to ask the question. She clenched her hands together and let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

"Who is the last name on the list?"

"Culverton Smith."

She closed her eyes to hold back her tears and sighed. "I had a feeling that was the final name."

"I'm so sorry, Watson. It appears that your past is now in your present, and could very well decide your future."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You are supposed to be living your life, not hiding in the shadows. I will find his 'avenging angel' and stop them before they succeed in harming you."

"How?"

"By using the same method I always use: deduction."

Outside the storm's ferocity began to lessen, the rain wasn't bombarding the windows any longer allowing the exterior street lights to dimly glow through the foggy window panes.

Curling up on the couch, Joan watched as Sherlock remained in front of the fire studying the final case file in his hands. His eyes remained intently focused on the document while her eyes felt heavy again, she struggled to remain awake but exhaustion was overpowering her.

A heavy 'BANG' from upstairs awakened Joan with a sudden jolt of panic! She sat up and felt her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around the room and saw that she was alone; Sherlock had left during her sleep and draped his afghan over her. Joan's eyes darted about the room trying to focus on anything that could seem unusual or out of place when the sudden 'BANG' echoed from upstairs again.

Taking in a deep breath, Joan tried to calm herself down. ' _It must be Sherlock. He's probably looking for some kind of tool to help the case along_.'

Another 'BANG', this one louder than the previous noises.

Summoning up what little courage she could find, Joan decided to check upstairs. All of her movements were precise and calculated; she didn't want to make any errors as she forced herself to investigate the enigmatic source of the sound. Once she was at the top of the stairs she saw the beam of the flashlight shining out through the opened doorway of Sherlock's room. A knot formed in her stomach.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

From behind a hand covered her mouth stifling her scream. Her attacker wrapped an arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. Joan desperately clawed at the arm with her hands but she wasn't strong enough to escape her assailants grip. She felt herself being pulled backward from the room, the heels of her boots digging into the wooden floors. A cold pressure began pushing itself again her throat, in her mind she knew it was the blade of a knife even though she couldn't see the steel.

Joan believed that at any second she would fall prey to her unseen attacker's blade when her attacker suddenly stopped in their tracks.

"Let her go, and drop your knife. In _that_ order!"

' _Sherlock_!' Joan had never been so relieved to hear his voice.

Sherlock had a weapon of his own pressed into the back of the attacker. With nowhere to go, Joan's attacker released their grip and she bolted away from them, throwing herself against the hallway wall in a panic. She was breathing heavily, adrenaline rushing through her body.

"Now, drop the knife." Sherlock ordered boldly.

The attacker, their entire body cloaked in thick black clothing, raised their hand which contained the knife high into the air. Their other hand rose shortly after to signal 'surrender' before dropping the blade to the hardwood floor.

"Turn around, slowly."

Moving slow, as ordered, the unknown assailant turned toward the detective, their arms still in the air. With a sudden burst of speed assailant ran toward Sherlock, pushing him out of their way as they ran down the stairs and through the front door out into the lingering storm. Sherlock tried to pursue but didn't have to run too far as both Detective Bell and Captain Gregson signaled for the awaiting police officers to turn on the lights and sirens.

"Freeze!" Bell's gun was drawn and pointed at the cloaked suspect.

As the officer's moved in on the criminal, Sherlock returned to the brownstone to check on Joan.

"Watson?" He ran up the stairs, skipping every other step. She had slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor in shock almost in tears.

"Watson? Look at me." He placed his hands on either side of her face and tried to get her to focus on him. "Watson, Bell and Gregson have your attacker in custody. You are safe now."

Joan ran her shaking hands through her long, dark hair. Her whole body was starting to shake with fear. Sherlock placed his strong hands on her arms to try and assure her that she was in fact safe and alive.

From behind Sherlock heard feet climbing up the stairs. "Holmes, is she alright?" Captain Gregson was genuinely concerned for Joan's well being.

"Physically she is fine; emotionally however, she will require some time to recover."

"That's understandable." He saw the attacker's knife still sitting at the top of the staircase where it had dropped. "Does this belong to our 'friend'?"

"Yes. That knife belongs to her attacker."

"I'll have an officer take care of it. Maybe you should take her to the hospital and have her checked out."

"No." Joan finally spoke up, through her voice was shaking with her fear. "I'll be okay."

"Are you sure Miss Watson?"

"Yeah, Captain. I'm sure."

"Come Watson; let the officer's do their job." Sherlock escorted Joan down the stairs and outside the brownstone. The duo stood in the heavy archway to avoid the rain.

"Sherlock, where were you when I was attacked?"

"I was preparing for the attacker. Waiting for them to make their entrance."

"You knew that the attacker was in the brownstone?" Joan was obviously shaken by the revelation.

"To be exact I knew the attacker was _going_ to enter the brownstone. When you fell asleep I took the liberty to explore the brownstone and locate the most logical means for the attacker to enter undetected. Afterward, during the appropriately timed lull in the storm's activity I called and informed Captain Gregson of the situation and asked for his assistance in staking out the exterior of the brownstone."

Joan just stared at Sherlock with disbelief. "And you didn't bother to tell me, until _now_ that I was bait?"

"Of course not, I intended to inform you of the situation but I lacked the proper time to do so, as I noticed the attacker was prying open the window in your bedroom. I returned to the downstairs to retrieve my pistol from the adjoining study, during which time you awakened and walked up the stairs to investigate the attacker's noisy entrance."

"And when I asked where you were, you didn't respond because…?"

"It would've given away my position and if the attacker had known that I was in the brownstone with you, their actions might have turned far more aggressive than originally intended. Of course the assailants deevolution to using a knife as opposed to their original attack of a brilliantly placed poisoned tack would signify that the attacker had already become bolder."

"I don't believe this."

The slamming of a car door drew both Joan and Sherlock's attention to a police cruiser parked on the street. In the back of the car they saw a person, dressed in all black.

"It appears that the N.Y.P.D. was indeed successful in apprehending your attacker." Sherlock sounded confident in his observation.

The cruiser took off down the street, the rain itself stopped as the car disappeared from sight.

"If you had a pistol with you, why didn't you… you know, _shoot_?"

"There are no bullets."

"Are you serious? You weren't even _really_ armed when you stopped them?"

"The bullets were not necessary. The attacker felt the distinct impression of the barrel of the pistol pressing against their spine. Once intimidation overruled their judgment the logical question of whether or not the gun was actually loaded never came to mind."

Joan was feeling uneasy again. Sherlock tried to change her current train of thought for the better.

"I'm sure that there is a comfortable hotel nearby that you may stay the rest of the night. I shall accompany you there before heading to the police station."

Joan remained silent.

"Unless of course you wish to join me and confront your attacker face-to-face."

"What? No, why would I want to be in the same building as that maniac, let alone get up close and personal?"

"Watson, I fear that if you do not face this foe tonight, you will regret it for the rest of your natural life."

"I think I can live my life just fine without ever seeing their face."

"Can you?" Sherlock's eyes were burning with intensity along with his linger fever.

"What do you mean?"

"If you do not know the identity of your attacker, how can you possibly live a normal life? Every face you see could be the face of that very maniac but you will never know for sure. You will spend the rest of your life paranoid, neurotic, a recluse unable to trust any person for any reason, regardless of the situation at hand."

"That sounds… familiar."

"Which is why I implore you to reconsider and sever the ties that bind you to your fears; here and now. Permanently."

Sherlock decided to give Joan some space while she considered the possibility. He reentered the brownstone to grab his coat.

Joan wasn't sure of what she should do. She silently contemplated her options, weighing in Sherlock's logic. Never before had she endured such a terrible event, her nerves were still shaking despite the reassurance that the grim events of the night had been concluded.

As Sherlock returned to the damp stoop where Joan was still standing, she silently nodded to him. He in turn held out her opened coat for her to slip on.

"You knew I'd choose to go and deal with it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"It's in your nature."

"My nature? Exactly what is my nature?"

"A healer. You were a doctor; a person who dedicates their life, their knowledge and decisions entirely around the concept of bettering another person's life. In turn you have the fortitude to deal with and react appropriately to any situation that requires direct treatment or in this case, confrontation. I am a prime example of your nature."

"Are you being honest right now?"

"Yes, the act of deception or lying is the human brain's unconscious attempt to deflect the notion of any personal fault or guilt. I bear no such fault or guilt, thus my honest opinion is the only opinion that is logical to share."

"Okay, shut up. Let's go." Joan slipped on her coat and the two walked over to Detective Bell who was sitting in his car.

Sherlock tapped on the glass of the closed passenger window with his knuckles. "Detective, would you be so kind as to give Miss Watson and myself a ride back to the police station?"

Bell looked confused at both the question and at the two people standing outside his car. "Uh, sure I guess so. But don't you want to get some sleep first?"

"No, I am currently running on adrenaline and Miss Watson wishes to deal with this unfortunate situation as quickly as possible."

"Alright, hop in."

Sherlock opened the passenger door for Joan before climbing into the backseat himself. The ride to the station was quiet but the air inside the vehicle was tense. Joan didn't want to talk about anything, Sherlock knew all too well the desire to seek solace after dealing with such a dire straight and luckily Bell's cop instincts were spot on and knew the silence was the most comforting thing for Joan for the moment. The only sounds came from the usual highway ambiance and the occasional static muffled banter on the police scanner.

Pulling up to the station house, Joan took in a deep breath before exiting the vehicle. Sherlock followed her into the building; he was acting more like a protective big brother than a 'master' watching his 'apprentice'. Navigating the halls of the station had become routine for both Joan and Sherlock. Together, the consulting detective's entered the interrogation room where the attacker was being questioned by Captain Gregson; they stood behind the one-way mirror and focused on the at last revealed face of the attacker.

"I don't believe it." Joan was in near shock. "She's just… a kid."

A young woman, barely in her 20's sat huncuffed at the table across from Captain Gregson. Her long blonde hair fell over her eyes, concealing her blank facial expression. Her shoulders were slumped forward in a defeated manner, while her hands remained cuffed and folded on top of the table.

Gregson continued the interrogation. "So, are you going to tell us your name or are we going to keep playing 'Twenty-Questions'?"

The blonde woman remained silent.

"Who is she anyway?" Joan couldn't place her face or anything else about her as familiar.

"She is the 'avenging angel'." Sherlock replied dryly.

"The avenging what? Are you sure it's _her_?"

"She is an inexperienced nurse. Her hands give her profession away; note the dryness of her skin which implies frequent washes but not the gained knowledge of using a beeswax type of lotion to compensate for said dryness. Also, her posture is indicative of a person who is constantly on their feet yet leaning over, as if examining a specimen-"

"Or a patient." Her voice was flat as she interjected.

"Precisely."

"I know hospitals are breeding grounds for 'angels of death', but why would she target _me_? I don't even remember working with her."

"Because you didn't."

Joan looked at Sherlock confused.

"Again, note the inexperience she has a nurse. She is quite new to the field of medicine; a recent graduate no doubt. She is also an orphan."

"How can you tell?"

"Despite being in custody for some time now, yet she has apparently not made a call to anyone on the outside. No family or lawyer has arrived which tells me that she has been alone for several years and has become accustomed to her abundant independence."

"How sad is that? All alone for so long, and she ends up…" Joan was no longer afraid of the woman, she felt only pity toward her attacker. "What pushed her to the edge like that?"

"Her parents' deaths. I'd wager that her parents were killed in a traffic accident and died while being treated at the hospital. She would've been young, too young to comprehend life or death and its fickle nature, so as children commonly do, she retreated into a fantasy world to compensate for her loss but in the end lost all ability to determine reality from fantasy. The end result is the disturbed woman who sits before you."

"I think you're right. She has scars on her hands, burn scars. I used to see those all the time back at the hospital. Car crash victims end up getting their hands burnt when they try to escape the fire from the engine or gas tank. Sometimes even the airbag could cause burns."

Detective Bell walked into the interrogation room with a forensic file in his hands.

"So, according to the fingerprints we took from you: Your name is Renee Smith, you're a nurse, graduated medical school very recently and yet you've already been banned from one of the local hospitals and charged with stalking. And... This is the most important detail you need to worry about right now: We were able to match your prints to a partial recovered from a weapon used in an attempted murder."

From behind the window Sherlock and Joan listened intently.

Captain Gregson butted in. "That's pretty impressive for someone so young. Now, let's talk about why you were trying kill a Miss Joan Watson, who by the way, is now a promising consulting detective who is working from this very police station."

Through her blonde hair, Renee glanced up and past the two detectives to the window behind them. Her blue eyes were brimming with anger and insanity. "Because she got away with what she did."

Joan shuddered at the statement.

Gregson wouldn't allow her to intimidate Joan and reclaimed control of the interview. "We're well aware of her past; it's _yours_ we're interested in."

Renee just scoffed at the remark. "Doctors like her, doctors like the ones who let my parents die, never get punished. And when she killed my uncle, the only family I had left, I realized that the only way I was going to get justice is if I took matters into my own hands."

"Miss Watson was cleared of all charges, but she chose to leave medicine anyway. Do you honestly think your uncle's death, or anyone else's death for that matter, doesn't affect the people who tried to save them?"

"Even if it does, it'll never matter as much to them as it does to me."

Sherlock looked over at Joan who was just starting with absolute numbness at Renee. "Watson, it seems that the pattern of suspects against you has unlocked a potential pattern of assault cases against other doctor's who have been investigated, but had the charges subsequently dropped as well."

"And she really believes that every doctor who had been cleared was actually guilty and they need to die?"

"It seems that way, yes."

"She really was going to kill me, wasn't she?"

Sherlock only nodded in a solemn fashion.

"And if you hadn't been in the brownstone with me, she could have-"

"Crime is common. Logic is rare." His hazel eyes focused intently on Joan's gaze. "If she had managed to harm you I would make it a personal mission in my life to find her and make her pay."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. I am merely stating that by choosing to leave medicine and choosing to stay with me, may have in fact saved your life." Sherlock looked away from Joan and back to Renee through the window. "Just as you have saved mine."

Words of gratitude or sincerity were seldom spoken by Sherlock. Giving her credit for his second chance at life was something she never thought she'd hear from him. For the first time in three days, Joan finally felt safe and it was only because Sherlock was standing beside her.

"Well now, it seems that the police have Renee secured, shall we take our leave?"

Sherlock opened the door and followed Joan out. The storm had finally ceased, the air was cool and smelled of fresh earth. The sky was cloudless and black but a few faint stars glimmered above the city. It was nearing 3am, it was seemingly too late to find a hotel and a finding an available taxi would be a chore. The duo walked back to the brownstone, side-by-side, feeling the immense weight of the case being lifted from their shoulders with each step.

As the brownstone came into view, the crime scene investigators were just finishing processing the scene. The remaining officer recognized Sherlock and Joan and allowed them to return to their home.

Sherlock nodded to the officials as he jogged up the steps, Joan remained idle at the foot of the stoop. "Watson, you do plan on coming inside, do you not?"

She sighed, her breath fogging the air in front of her. "I never did thank you. You know, for saving my life."

"You saved mine. You don't have to thank me."

"Is that our relationship? We just keep paying each other back for favors?"

"Of course not, that would imply a means of keeping score." Sherlock crossed his arms behind his back. "Do you wish to keep score?"

"No." She laughed a little. "I just want to go to bed."

"As you wish."

Sherlock held the door open for Joan once more, despite his many flaws on a personal level, he was still a gentleman. Joan chose to sleep on the couch in the sitting room instead of going upstairs. As she put her coat on the rack and took her boots off, Sherlock rapidly ascended the stairs.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

"Same to you Watson."

Joan curled up on the couch, wrapping herself with the familiar afghan and quickly fell asleep. After all the time she put in to dealing with Sherlock Holmes as his sober-companion; losing her apartment, drifting from her friends and family, dealing with his erratic contacts from his past and a madman with a gun, Joan finally felt like she finally gained something in return: Loyalty.

As she slept she felt completely as ease. She felt like she was home.

_**-The End** _

**Author's Note:**

> Part One: 'Happenstance'.
> 
> Part Two: 'An Investigation Begins'.


End file.
